


Light and Fast

by celestialskiff



Category: Leverage
Genre: Angst, Bedwetting, Cuddling & Snuggling, Definite trigger warnings for child abuse, Dissociation, Eliot is a good bro, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hair Brushing, Hurt comfort with the emphasis on comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Parker doesn't know how to ask, Parker's bunny, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sophie really cares about Parker, Team as Family, Thumb-sucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 06:48:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15552024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialskiff/pseuds/celestialskiff
Summary: She had never asked someone to watch her back. She had never looked for a safe place.Written in response to 1.06, The Stork Job. Parker learns to accept comfort from her team.Warnings: Descriptions of PTSD symptoms and mentions of child abuse, including implied sexual abuse. Lots and lots of comfort though.





	Light and Fast

**Author's Note:**

> Parker's face in the Stork Job broke me so I wrote this. Thanks to capeofstorm for looking it over for me. Sorry for any rogue Britishisms.

Parker had forgotten the smell. Sweaty blankets, unaired rooms, urine, boiled food. A Serbian orphanage shouldn't have smelt so similar to a children’s home in the US. Perhaps it was because, more than anything, both stank of fear. 

The children cried and shouted and laughed in the back of the stolen van. Sophie spoke to them in Serbian, Hardison made faces at them trying to elicit a laugh, Eliot put a hand on the shoulders of those who cried. Parker sat rigidly, her hands locked around her knees, unable to move. 

She couldn't talk to anyone. She certainly couldn't offer comfort. She thought about ice-cream, snow on mountain tops, the sound of a safe opening. She told herself she wasn't here, she was crawling on her belly through a vent, unseen, silent. 

*

After Belgrade, Parker stopped sleeping. She went running through the city, sweating, getting blisters on her feet. When she was too tired to run, she walked instead, chasing away the urge to rest with step after step after step. Her eyes grew red and painful, a headache settling deep in her skull. 

She drank coke, coffee, gatorade. Still, each step began to feel insurmountable, as though she had never honed her body at all. Days of moving; days without sleep. She stumbled, dizzy. But she kept going, the fatigue curling around her bones. Nothing could catch her if she kept moving; if she was fast and light. 

The smell from Belgrade was still under her nails, in her hair, no matter how far she ran. She felt it in her mouth, in her armpits. The taste of despair. She wanted to scream, to pull at her hair. To lie on the ground and bang her head against the floor until she saw white. 

She stopped at the edge of a suburb. A child with a bike. The world spun, blue and gold blurring into one. She didn't pass out, but her legs trembled, her vision filled with static. When did she last sleep? Not on the plane, not before the plane. She must have dozed once or twice. Sleep wasn't safe. She couldn't trust it. 

Feeling uncertain of her limbs was not acceptable either. She was a mechanism, a well-oiled lock, clicking shut. 

_We're a team,_ she remembered Hardison saying. _We're a little more than a team._

She had never asked someone to watch her back. She had never looked for a safe place.

She kept moving. What had she done last time? It had been this bad before, she knew that. Her mouth full of the scent of bodies, her skin not enough to cover her organs. Time disappeared for Parker, days would turn blank, she'd wake up somewhere and not know how she got there. That was OK: when she felt like this, vanishing days were almost a vacation. 

She pressed her hands to her temples, wishing she could let go now. She was twitching like a wild animal, startling at any sound. “Stop it,” she said, into her hands. “Stop, stop, stop.” 

“Can I get you something?” 

It took her a long time to process that she was in a diner. She didn't know how she'd got here, at a greasy table with a cup of coffee in front of her. Last thing she was sure of, she'd been on a sidewalk. She bolted, her knees trembling. Someone tried to grab her: her arm shot out without her volition, meeting flesh. Her vision blurred, red at the edges. 

Her feet were taking her to the Leverage headquarters. She couldn't remember when she'd last turned on her phone. Were they looking for her? _Everyone knows I'm crazy,_ she thought. _Everyone knows I don't play well with others._

She'd been afraid to touch Bunny since she got back. What if her dirty fingers, her corrupted skin, made him smell like orphanage? It had been hard enough to get the smell out the first time. Her hair in her face felt greasy, tasted like dust against her lips. She should cut it off. She should cut it all off – hair, nails, eyelashes, toes. All the extra parts. 

_Too crazy. Stop it_ , she thought, and it was relief to have that insight. She was holding on to the ragged edges of herself. 

No one was at the headquarters. She stood, trembling, letting the coolness of the rooms settle around her. 

Curled up on the couch, the world narrowed. There was the red against her eyes, the taste of pain in her mouth. She was beginning to float. It felt good to give up, to let go of her sense of her body. The burden was too much to bear. 

She arrived so quickly in the cupboard it was hard to know if she was dreaming or waking. 

She knew it intimately: the coats against her mouth, the smell of old urine, sweat. Her arms around herself, Bunny under her chin. She was small now, locked into a tiny shape, heart pounding in her ears. He was going to find her, he was going to find her, he was going to find her… 

The cupboard opened. She shrank from the hands, the light against her eyes. The scream was inside her throat, but it didn't come out. She held it, like she'd hold a cup full of a hot liquid, steady, steady, not letting it spill. 

He lifted her out. She didn't thrash, but she remained stiff, unmalleable. Bunny in her arms. 

“You're a quiet one, aren't you.” He brushed the hair from her face. Touched her cheeks, the space under her eyes. His fingers smelt like mustard, like meat. 

She let him touch her. She couldn't do anything else. “I'm not going to hurt you, sweetheart,” he said. 

She was right not to believe him. 

* 

There was an evil taste in her mouth, and her eyes were glued together. She wasn't sure she could fight or run: her limbs felt heavy and awkward. The powerlessness frightened her. She unstuck her tongue from the roof of her mouth, shuddered, bit down a whimper. 

Assessing. Her clothes were wet: she'd pissed herself. The room was full of light. She couldn't hear voices, no one was touching her. She swallowed. OK. Could be worse. She'd need to wash today, she'd probably need to eat. For a moment it was hard to remember how to get access to those things: would she have to steal? Where would she go? 

It all coalesced. Where she was. How far she'd come. Hardison would be upset about the couch. He'd picked it out himself. 

She opened her eyes. There was a glass of water on the table in her line of vision. Eliot was sitting in the chair across from her, twisting a bracelet around his wrist. God _damn_ it. If only she could let go of herself again. Let some other part of her could take charge of this situation. 

“Take a breath,” Eliot said. 

Parker thought that was the stupidest thing she'd ever heard. Of course she was taking a breath. She knew how to breathe. 

Her fingers felt strange, like they couldn't bend properly. But they held the glass of water. She sipped, trying to ease her mouth's dryness. 

“I found some clothes. Pyjamas, I think. You can go wash up.” 

She was clammy. Another reason not to sleep: she woke like this, clothes wet, head spinning. The dreams hung in her mind, heavy as velvet, obscuring everything. She sipped again. The cold water tasted metallic. 

“You been watching me sleep?” she asked. 

“I've been here for about an hour,” Eliot said, which wasn't the answer to her question. 

She stood up slowly. She was nauseous and hungry at the same time. 

The shower was tiny: a closet next to Nate's office. But it helped to strip off her wet clothes, and it helped to stand under the heat. When she was a teenager, she'd have to sneak into a gym to wash, not easy when her clothes were already soiled. For a moment, the easy access to hot water was again a luxury. 

She'd lost track of what day it was, when she'd last washed. She usually used scentless soap so no one would notice a floral smell while she was on a job, but there was a herbal shampoo in the shower, possibly left by Sophie. She rubbed it into her skin and hair – the sweet pungent scent almost made her sick, but it also covered any other smells. 

Her hair was clumpy, matted. It must have been a while since she'd last brushed it. It didn't seem to matter much. 

The pyjama pants Eliot had found had a drawstring, so she could cinch them at her waist. She rolled up the cuffs. The t-shirt was long and had a picture of Yoda on it, so it must be Hardison's. That made her smile. 

She could smell eggs. Eliot was frying them in the little kitchenette. She watched as he plated them up, put out some toast. 

“What day is it?” she asked. 

“Tuesday.” Eliot raised his eyebrows. “All day. We got back from Belgrade on Friday.” He pushed the plate towards her. “Eat.” 

The eggs ran onto the toast. Her stomach growled, but she couldn't make herself dig in. The yellow yolk against her teeth, the white coating the back of her throat. She rubbed her face with her hand. 

“I can't eat this.” 

She found Fruit Loops in the cupboard, slightly stale. She began eating them from the packet, handful by handful. The crunch was safe. Her tongue became coated in gritty sugar. 

“At least drink some juice,” Eliot said, pushing a glass towards her. 

She picked it up gladly, draining it. 

“How long?” Eliot was watching her. 

“What?” 

“How long have you been like this?” he gestured – to her, the room, the Fruit Loops, encompassing them all with his hand. 

“Always.” 

Eliot snorted. “It's been worse since Belgrade, right?” 

Parker put the cereal down. Her stomach turned. She could still smell eggs. “I should go.” 

“Don't –“ Eliot began, just as a voice called out, “Hello, anyone here?” 

It was Sophie. 

Parker felt ashamed, suddenly, in a way she hadn't before. It hit her that Eliot had seen her frightened and wet and helpless. And now Sophie. They would know – they would know everything that had happened, everything that was written into her mind. 

She wrapped her arms around herself, adrenaline spiking. Hide? Stab someone? 

“A pyjama party?” Sophie said, coming into the kitchenette, smiling. She looked like someone from another world, in her silk dress, holding bags from high-end boutiques, hair curling around her face. 

But she was Sophie, so she was assessing the situation while she smiled disarmingly. Before Parker could move, Sophie's hand was on her wrist, and she could smell Sophie's perfume. “Darling, what happened?” Sophie said. 

Parker didn't have any words. She ducked her head, rocking herself. She felt like running was a good option. Fighting, too, maybe. Never seeing any of them again. But who to stab, and where to run? 

“She hasn't been sleeping,” Eliot said. 

Sophie kept her hand on Parker's arm, squeezing gently. Because she was Sophie, Parker's skin didn't crawl. She stared at Sophie's small brown hand, at the rings and sculpted nails. Somehow, the site of something so flawless and so clean made her throat burn. Because she wasn't like that, because she was soiled everywhere. 

“Did she come to you?” Sophie asked. 

“Found her here.” Eliot sighed. “Belgrade,” he added, as though that was a whole sentence, a complete explanation. 

“Ah.” Sophie squeezed Parker's arm again. With her other hand, she smoothed Parker's hair back from her face. It was wet, unbrushed. “Have you been eating?” 

It was too much. Parker twitched, and she began to shiver, her whole body shuddering, her teeth chattering. It wasn't cold, this was something that happened to her sometimes, like a crawling, craven _thing_ had got under her skin. The shivers coursed her body, almost convulsions. 

“I don't –“ But the chattering teeth cut her words off, and she didn't know what she was saying anyway. She wanted something nameless, she yearned for something that didn't exist. She looked helplessly at the others. 

Eliot took her by the shoulders. She let him lead her back to the couch. “Sit,” he said, and she sat, though usually being told what to do made her want to do the opposite. 

Sophie draped a blanket around her shoulders. Eliot was talking to her – _Focus on my voice_ , he was saying, and _Remember to breathe._

Parker didn't listen. She let the shivering wash over her, muscles contracting, teeth rattling. It went on until her jaw hurt and her shoulders burnt, and then it eased. She leant back into the couch, pulling the blanket around her. She was glad, now, of its weight. 

Sophie was sitting beside her, not touching. Eliot across from her. Both watched her, attentive, like she was a mark, like she had something useful. It was funny. Nobody ever looked at her like that. Like she was important. And that was the secret, wasn't it? Be unimportant and you could steal anything you wanted. 

“What can we do?” Sophie said, warm eyes intent on Parker's face. 

Parker shrugged. She didn't really want anything, except for everything to be over. A sleep without dreams. 

“Can we watch a movie?” she said at last. 

* 

Eliot and Sophie squabbled over the movie. Parker hadn't thought they'd agree to watch something with her at all. She found she didn't really care what they saw, as long as it stopped her thinking. And, as soon as the opening sequence flashed across the screen, she forgot what they were watching, losing the thread of the plot completely. It wasn't important. The loud music helped, the flashes of colour. 

Sophie kept her hand on Parker's arm, and halfway through Parker began leaning into her touch. It didn't come easily to her. She had to concentrate on relaxing her muscles enough to ease into Sophie, but something about Sophie's warmth was compelling. Parker leant her head on Sophie's shoulder, smelling Sophie's perfume – citrus and spice. 

After a while, her hand wandered towards her lips, and then her thumb was in her mouth. Foster parents had always told her it was a dirty habit, but Sophie and Eliot didn't say anything. Sophie wrapped her arm around Parker's shoulders. 

One movie ended; Sophie lobbied successfully for _Erin Brockovich_ which made Eliot sigh and shake his head. Parker didn't really care. She didn't know how it had happened, but she felt like she'd gone to another plane of existence, where everything was coloured with honey, and she wasn't scared. She was going to appreciate it while it lasted. 

Eliot was restless. “Your hair's tangled,” he told her, folding his arms across his chest. 

Parker took the thumb out of her mouth, but she didn't know what to say. She shrugged. 

“It's a mess,” Eliot said, and went to get a brush and comb. 

“I'm not going to ask why those were in the kitchen,” Sophie said, smiling. 

“You'll pull it,” Parker said, ducking away from his hands. She didn't care if her hair was tangled. She could worry about it later. Or cut it off. 

“I won't,” Eliot said. 

“You will.” 

“Ten dollars says I won't.” 

Parker considered. “OK.”

He stood behind the couch, assessing her hair, dividing it into sections. He was gentle and confident as he brushed. Once or twice it stung as the comb teased out the worst mats, but nothing really hurt. Parker found her eyes closing, surprising herself. She usually went stiff all over when anyone touched her hair. 

The movie dialogue filled the room, meaningless but comforting. She could hear the shush-shush-shush of the brush through her hair, feel Eliot's competent hands. She felt herself drifting into a honey cloud. 

When her hair was smooth, Eliot stepped back, but she mumbled, “Don't stop.”

Eliot laughed. “Now you owe me double. Twenty dollars, because you asked for more.” 

It was worth it. She sighed as he brushed it back and began to braid it. 

“Where did you get so skilled?” Sophie asked. 

“No questions. Watch the movie,” Eliot said, voice gruff. 

Parker's head felt lighter now, and the tangles didn't pull at her scalp. She looked up at Eliot. He was still behind the couch, glancing at the movie. “I could eat ice-cream,” she said. 

“I ain't getting you ice-cream,” Eliot said, but he was already putting down the comb and looking for his wallet. 

“Ooh, see if they have mango frozen yoghurt,” Sophie said, drawing her legs up under herself. 

“If I'm getting ice-cream, we'll eat chocolate like normal people.” 

Parker nodded. Chocolate was her favourite. 

“Thank you, Eliot,” Sophie said. She smiled sweetly, and put her arms back around Parker. This time, Parker allowed herself to go limp, her muscles lax as she leant her head on Sophie's breast. 

*

She went home with Sophie. After the strange, comfortable afternoon, she couldn't make herself argue, and she kind of agreed with Eliot and Sophie when they said she shouldn't be alone. 

“Do you want to pick up some of your clothes?” Sophie asked when they were in her convertible. 

Parker looked down at the Yoda t-shirt. She thought it would probably be safe to let Sophie come with her to the warehouse, but she didn't want to go there. She couldn't hold Bunny yet, and she didn't want to be there without him. 

She shook her head mutely, fingering a loose thread at the hem of her t-shirt. 

“You can borrow something of mine.” Sophie turned the car onto a narrower road. 

“Sometimes I pee the bed,” Parker said quickly, to get it out of the way. 

Sophie put her hand on Parker's wrist and squeezed. “I know.” 

“Oh.” Parker bit her lip. “Did Eliot tell you?” 

“He didn't have to,” Sophie said. “Don't worry about it, sweetheart.” 

Parker stared out at the houses and restaurants they passed – brightly lit windows, people talking, couples and family groups. The world she'd never inhabited. 

“You can talk to me about anything, you know.” Sophie's voice was gentle and assured at the same time. It reminded Parker of the voice she used on marks when she wanted to convince them of something. 

“I don't have anything to say,” Parker told her. 

* 

Parker couldn't eat anything but cookies, although Sophie had put out chicken and salad, and she couldn't stay still, even though Sophie petted her hair and tried to put her arm around her. She wanted to run, but her muscles were shaky, head spinning. Sophie encouraged her to sleep, too, but she fought sleep, tapping her feet, watching sitcoms and news. 

The apartment was very still once Sophie had gone to bed. It reminded of her sneaking up to get food when she was a kid and hadn't been allowed any dinner. The darkness, unfamiliar shadows, ache in her gut. 

Parker changed the TV channels, curling into different positions on the fluffy couch. Cars, news, sitcom. Sleep crept up on her, like always. First her thumb was wandering towards her mouth, then her head was drooping. She changed the channel. Sitcom, nature documentary, commercial. Her body ached. The room blurred. 

She realised time had passed – an old movie was playing. There weren't any cars driving past outside, just silence. 

She put her hand under herself – nope, she hadn't peed. That was something. Her eyes drifted shut again. 

She woke with a blanket spread over her, and the smell of waffles in the air. 

“I went out and got some food I thought might be Parker-friendly,” Sophie said. “You slept, finally.” 

Parker blinked. She felt indescribably better, as she always did after a sleep that was real, solid, without nightmares. “I'm starving,” she said, and it was a relief, too, to be starving. “Did you buy bacon?” 

“As it happens, I did,” Sophie said. She'd put out forks and knives on her little kitchen island, and she had toaster waffles, bacon, a box of Lucky Charms. It was perfect. Parker sat on one of the high stools, swinging her legs. 

She ate everything, chewing with her mouth open, sighing over the taste of sugar and salt and cinnamon. Sophie nibbled a piece of bacon, drank coffee, looked away from her when Parker tried to stuff an entire waffle in her mouth. 

The bad feelings came back a little while after that, after they'd done the dishes, and Parker had flicked foam at Sophie and Sophie had flicked some back, and they'd laughed, and Sophie had checked her phone and called Nate, and Parker had watered Sophie's trailing fern. It was like the feelings had waited until she was rested again, and safe. She'd recharged herself, and given them strength. Her skin was dirty, crawling with invisible insects, her chest fluttered, her feet wanted to run. 

“I gotta go out,” she explained to Sophie when Sophie saw her at the door. 

“Why? Where are you going?” 

But she couldn't tell her. “I just … I've got to move,” she said. 

“Take my spare phone,” Sophie said, giving her a small cell. “Call me. I'm going to call you in an hour.” 

Parker took it because Sophie had asked her to. Why would Sophie need to call her? Was this a being-a-person thing she didn't understand? 

She ran again, her old trainers opening up the blisters along her toes and heels. They'd barely closed. It didn't matter. The burn and rub of raw skin grounded her. 

Sophie lived in a nice area, the kind of suburb Parker would never bother to visit. People weren't wealthy enough to have anything really worth stealing, but it wasn't the kind of area she was familiar with. Too middle-class. She ran past bakeries, organic grocery stories, florists. 

There were too many people here, talking and rushing and shopping. Her skin itched every time someone looked at her. She was seeing the kids again, those Belgrade kids, and then she was seeing herself, under a bed, counting dust-bunnies. The times she'd hidden and all the times she hadn't. The times someone had deliberately hurt her, and the times they'd forgotten she existed. 

_You're not worth anything. The weak aren't worth anything._

_You're nothing._

Her life one blur of this: endless repetitions of running and trying to make herself forget. Of fighting with the part of herself that told her to just give up. To stop running and stealing and to leap without a harness. Let the whole sky take her, and collapse under the tug of gravity. Repeat, repeat, repeat. She was exhausted. 

She thought she was running towards a suburban park, and was pleased at more freedom to run without trying not to bump into anyone. And the prospect of grass under her feet, soothing the ache in her bones. 

But instead she ran into a playground: a square of mulched earth, surrounded by a thin strip of grass, with benches around the sides. Kids were playing on a jungle gym, on swings, a teeter-totter. She stopped, assailed by the sound of laughter and screams, the little dramas enacted under the watchful eye of adults. 

She wanted to turn around and run, but her breath came harsh in her throat. She swayed on her feet, rooted to the spot. A small child – boy or girl, she couldn't tell – easily climbed the highest part of the jungle gym, balancing steadily. Her vision blurred. The smell of the mulch was in her throat. The kids shrieked, screamed, and she knew they were excited sounds, but they bored into her skull like cries of fear. 

The world juddered on its axis. 

She was tiny, aware of her smallness because it allowed her to hide in the tightest of corners, away from hands and sounds. But it also made her easy to lift, powerless. She was biting his neck as he lifted her, teeth clamping into stubbly adult flesh, the taste of shaving foam and oatmeal. _What's wrong with you,_ he shouted. _What's wrong with you,_ as he pried her loose, and she sank, gratefully, to the floor. 

The mind unravelling, the parts of memories she didn't know, or couldn't follow. Her mouth full of dirt as she lay on the ground; fingers spreading apart her buttocks; a drowned kitten; a bicycle veering into the road. So many disjointed thoughts and none of them bearable. 

Her mother swinging her by her hair. The pain blooming over her scalp. 

Everything went red, then white. 

Her cell phone rang, once and then again. She was distantly aware of it. When she came back to the confines of her adult skin, she was hunched on the ground behind one of the benches, the cell in one hand. Three missed calls from Sophie. 

This time, she answered. Sophie's voice, saying her name, was disorienting, as though Sophie existed in a future she hadn't yet reached. “Can you...” Parker swallowed, and Sophie replied, eagerly, “Yes?” 

“Come and get me,” Parker said. “Please.” 

* 

She couldn't remember ever folding herself into someone's arms like that, especially not in public. She touched her nose to the side of Sophie's neck, Sophie's arms settling onto her shoulder-blades. Though it was hot, she was shivering again, little tremors in her chest and jaw. 

They sat in Sophie's car, the little flashy convertible. Parker didn't have any words – not to say what she wanted, or what had happened. She knew she was feeling something, it wrapped around her like a dense cloud, but she couldn't say what it was. 

“Sweetheart,” Sophie said, gently. “You're not having a good time, are you?” 

Sophie began driving, and Parker was glad to surrender to the movement, to Sophie taking charge. _I should climb a building_ , Parker thought. _But feeling like this, I'd probably die._

_I never died before. Adrenaline keeps you fast and light._

But for now, she let Sophie drive her, out of the suburb, into another, and on. 

*

She woke up wet, in Sophie's guest bedroom, her nose in Bunny's stomach. She wasn't disoriented this time – she was aware of the scent of the sheets, the soft ticking of Sophie's antique clock in the hall. She was glad she'd braved her warehouse and got bunny. He smelt like Sophie's perfume now. 

She lay for a while in the warmth of her own piss, unable to motivate herself to move, to begin the routine of bed-stripping and washing and changing. If she was the kind of person who knew how to cry, she might have cried. Instead, she turned her face against Bunny, and breathed. 

Sophie came into the kitchen as she was stuffing the sheets into the washer. Parker was glad she'd cleaned up first and put on fresh sweat-pants. 

“Would you like some tea?” Sophie said, her voice gentle and polite, as though Parker was a guest she wanted to impress. 

Parker sniffed. “I don't think that would be a good idea.” 

Sophie hovered, hand on the kettle. “Should I leave you alone?” 

Parker thought she was going to say yes – yes, leave me here to my sheets and my headache, but instead she made a little groan in the back of her throat, and launched herself forward, arms out. Sophie caught her, and kissed her, on the temple and the crown of her head. 

“It must suck,” Parker said, face pillowed somewhere around Sophie's chest. “Having me here.” 

“Darling.” Sophie rubbed circles on Parker's back. “No.” 

They sat on the couch – Sophie didn't put on the lights or the TV, though Parker would have liked the comfort of the glowing screen, so they were lit only by the ever-present colour of the city. Parker pressed herself up against Sophie. She'd never known she would want to seek warmth like this. She'd never known another person could hold her in a way that felt good. 

“People say you're supposed to talk about it. On TV, and stuff,” Parker said, playing with the hem of Sophie's nightshirt. 

“The things that have happened to you?” Sophie wasn't looking at her, which helped. 

“I guess.” Parker nibbled her thumb. “The kids. In Belgrade. They were me. I mean. I felt like they were me.” 

“I know,” Sophie said. 

“It wasn't the same. For me. I didn't live in a place like that. Not really. And things happened to me, but not the same things.” She rocked a little, against Sophie's side. Rocking herself, and sucking her thumb: the only things that calmed her. 

“It must have been very frightening for you.” 

Parker shrugged. “You know how little kids say they want their Mom. Or someone, I guess, to comfort them, when they're scared. I never had anyone. Even when my Mom was around, I didn't want her. She was one of the people I was scared of. It was just me and Bunny.” 

Sophie didn't speak for a long time. She ran her finger over Parker's wrist. “I'm glad we went to get Bunny today, then.”

“Bad things happen to everyone,” Parker said. “Look at Eliot. Or our clients.” 

“It doesn't make the bad things that happen to you hurt any less, does it, darling,” Sophie said. 

Parker sighed, turned her head slightly so her cheek rested against Sophie's chest. “I guess not.” She nibbled her thumb. “It really must suck, though, having me here.” 

“No,” Sophie said, gently. “No. I want to help people, remember? Especially people I like. Especially you.” 

Parker didn't really believe her. “I could go to a different city. Find new vents and places to hide. You could forget about me.” She pictured it, felt a sting of sadness. “But we make such a good team.” 

“I don't think I could forget about you,” Sophie said. “Do you think Hardison could? Or Eliot?” 

“Hardison shouldn't like me. He's a good person.” 

Sophie sighed. “And you're not?” 

“Not like that.” Parker rocked slightly, bumping against Sophie. “Not like that.” 

“He's been texting, you know. Asking if you're OK. I said you might need some time.” 

Parker looked at her hands. Thinking of Hardison gave her a burst of warm feelings, like jumping off a small building, or eating very good ice-cream. But he also made her insides squirm with shame, because she knew she wasn't good like he was. 

Sophie kissed her forehead. The touch was so tender that Parker didn't understand what it meant. “Have you ever seen a therapist?” Sophie asked, which ruined it. 

“Uh-huh.” Parker squirmed away. “One of them put dye on my thumb so my mouth turned purple every time I sucked it. She thought I'd be embarrassed.” 

“Oh.” Sophie's sigh was gentle. “Was that it?”

“Someone else tried to teach me the names of emotions. I didn't go very often. There were too many screwed-up kids and not enough therapists to go around.” She stared at the window. The light was becoming brighter, more defined. The sun coming up. “I went to AA a few times, in New York. Because they had cookies.”

Sophie snorted. “I wish Nate could be persuaded by cookies.” 

“They started to recognise me, so I stopped going. Anyway, I'm not an alcoholic.” 

“It might be hard to find someone who would know how to help you,” Sophie said thoughtfully. “We don't lead very traditional lives.” 

“I don't think I want to talk about it, anyway.” Parker watched the sun creep in at the bottom of the window. “I was just trying it out.” 

“Well.” Sophie squeezed her again, drawing Parker close. “I'm here any time you want to.” She touched Parker's cheek. “Please don't leave the city.” 

* 

Eliot made popcorn – not microwaved but made in a big pot. Parker listened to the kernels pinging against the lid. He coated half of it with cinnamon and sugar, and the other half with salt and rosemary. Parker only liked the sweet half.

“Typical,” Eliot said. He nibbled some of the savoury pieces. “The rosemary ain't exactly right though. Needs a more astringent herb.” 

Sophie said she liked it, but Parker noticed she didn't eat much of either kind. They were in Sophie's apartment, the air-conditioning whirring softly. Parker felt a calmness again – Sophie and Eliot spoke to each other without demanding she be involved. She liked their quiet chatter, the sounds of them moving around the kitchen. It made her throat ache as though she was going to cry, but it wasn't a bad feeling. She let it suffuse her, a mixture of safety and sadness. 

“Did you brush your hair since I did it for you?” Eliot said, putting a hand on her shoulder. 

Parker was sitting at the breakfast bar, working her way through the popcorn. “Hmm. Sophie told me to comb it.” 

“And then I tried to brush it for her, and she ran away and sat on the roof for two hours,” Sophie said. 

Eliot rolled his eyes. “You must have hurt her.” 

Parker crunched the popcorn. She kind of liked them talking about her like she wasn't there. It made her feel like she could be someone else, the person they saw instead of the person she was. 

Eliot made her do her hair by herself this time, giving guidance. “Start from the bottom,” he said, and “I'll spray on a little water to help with the tangles.” She tugged the comb through it listlessly. 

She preferred when he did it for her. “Can I brush yours?” she asked. 

“You'll screw it up,” he said. 

“Will you put braids in mine again?” 

He agreed to that, and she relaxed under his hands. 

“It's lovely how gentle you are with her,” Sophie said. “You'd be a good dad.” 

“Don't know about that,” he said. Parker could feel the sudden tension in Eliot's hands, a tug she wasn't expecting. She hissed, and his fingers loosened. He pet her scalp lightly, a kind of apology. 

“I think so.” Sophie leant her chin on her hand. “Although what do I know about being a parent? It's not the kind of life we have, is it?” 

“It ain't,” Eliot agreed. He snapped an elastic around her last braid, and it made her sad to realise he was done. 

“Do you ever think about the other life?” Sophie said. “The one we might have had?” 

Eliot leant against the breakfast bar. “Where I'm a suburban dad and you work as an art curator and you're a married to Nate?” 

Sophie laughed. “Something like that.” 

“Who would I have been, Eliot?” Parker asked. “In the pretend life?” 

“I don't know, sweetheart. Who'd you want to be?” 

Parker found her thumb going into her mouth as she thought about it. She imagined herself as a teenager with Eliot her big brother, bossing her around and hitting anyone who was mean. But it felt ridiculous: that life couldn't even exist in fantasy. All she had was what she'd become, the events that had led her here to this kitchen with Eliot and Sophie. 

“A trapeze artist,” she said at last. 

Eliot snorted. “That's not a boring normal life.” 

“It's legal, though,” Parker said. “Isn't it?” Sometimes thing she thought were legal turned out not to be. 

“It's legal,” Sophie confirmed. “Do you ever feel like it was stolen from you, Eliot?” 

“What, being a suburban dad?” Eliot carefully cleaned the loose hair from the comb he'd been using. “No. We made our choices.” 

“You didn't make all of them,” Parker said, looking up at him. 

“I did.” Eliot folded his arms over his chest. 

“You didn't. Stuff happened to you. It brought you places. It wasn't all you.” She chewed her lip. It was so hard to put into words. “You're like me.” 

Eliot looked away from her. She could see he wasn't happy, and she wished she hadn't spoken. “We embraced it, though. We didn't have to.” 

“I know.” Parker sighed. She ducked her head down. “Can you undo my hair and do it up again?” 

“No.” Eliot snorted. “Hardison is coming over soon, anyway.” 

Parker looked at Sophie. “Is he? Did you invite him?”

“He's been asking about you,” Sophie said. 

The popcorn felt strange in her stomach suddenly. Like the kernels were popping all over again. She'd tired to hold onto Hardison, her memory of his smile, his kindness when he spoke to her, when she'd been loosing track of every other part of herself. But she felt weird about it, because he hadn't been enough. She hadn't been able to hold on to anything. 

“Will it be OK?” Parker asked Sophie, because Sophie knew almost everything. 

Sophie stood up and came to give her a sideways hug. “I'll be here.” 

*

After the movie, and after Hardison and Eliot bickered about fight scenes and cinematography and some other boring things, and after they'd drunk beer, Parker brought Hardison up to the roof. It took him a long time to get up there, because the roof wasn't supposed to be accessed by people living in the building. It was very easy to access even so, but Hardison still had trouble. 

“Woman, what are you doing to me?” he said, holding on very hard to the gutter, his mouth set. 

“It's safe,” Parker said. Meaning: she felt safe up here, nothing could touch her, she could see anyone who might be coming for her. Meaning: the sky felt close and comforting. Meaning: she wouldn't ask anyone else up here, he was special. 

“You sure?” Hardison shifted awkwardly. 

“Eliot's kind of screwed up, you know,” Parker said. “I think that's why he's so grumpy.” 

“Has he been bugging you?” 

Parker shook her head. “He did my hair. He's good at it.” 

Hardison laughed. “Is he?” 

They were silent for a while, the sky pressing all around them, mild and blue. Parker wondered if she should touch Hardison's wrist, like Sophie touched her. At last she said, “We protect each other. Is that what being a team is?” 

“I think so,” Hardison said. “Part of it.” He glanced over at her. 

“I'd kill anyone you asked me to. I'd figure out how.” Parker looked boldly over the urban landscape. She would. She'd kill anyone. Hardison would only ask her for a good reason. 

“Well.” Hardison coughed. “I mean, if I needed someone dead, I'd probably ask Eliot.” 

“That's fair.” Parker swung her legs, and Hardison made an anxious sound. “Well, what if you needed Eliot dead?” 

“I don't think I'd ever need Eliot dead,” Hardison said. 

Parker nodded slowly. “That's what trust is, isn't it?” 

“Part of it.” Hardison said again. He squeezed his hands together. “I heard you been having a bad time.” 

Parker shrugged. “It doesn't get better.” 

Hardison looked sad, which made her sad. 

“I don't want to talk about it,” she said. “We can talk about _Star Wars_. I have a Yoda t-shirt now.” 

*

She fell asleep on the couch, happy. Eliot had gone, but Hardison and Sophie and Nate were in the kitchen, talking, laughing. She fell asleep with the warm honey glow in her chest, the feeling that might be called safety, or comfort. And she fell into the memories like they had been waiting for her, like they'd trapped her in the glow so they could attack her more easily. 

Not that she'd ever had any defences against them anyway. 

And it was so tawdry and dirty and nasty, and it was boring too, because it was always the same goddamn things, and she felt small and helpless and tired. And she woke up, having ruined the couch. Even her hands were wet, because she'd been sleeping on her stomach. 

For a little while, Parker was outside of herself. Floating somewhere without feelings of any kind. Time didn't pass there. She left her body behind, and it was good. Then she was back to herself, colder and wetter and stickier than she'd been before.

Sophie was still in the kitchen, but she was alone. Drinking red wine, talking softly on the phone. She looked adult, beautiful, everything Parker wasn't, and never could be. 

She looked up as Parker came in. Her voice into the phone was unfamiliar, a strange British accent Parker didn't recognise. “I'll ring you back, pet,” she said. 

Parker didn't know what to do. She felt a heat running through her: was it shame? She spread her hands out, helplessly. Sophie could beat her with a belt, like her foster mom used to do when she wet the bed. That would be OK. She deserved that. She almost wanted it. 

“I might have ruined your couch,” she said, staring down at her wet thighs. She needed to wash her hands. 

“I can buy another one,” Sophie said. “Darling. Do you want a bath?” 

Parker felt herself begin to tremble, teeth chattering. It was too much. It was all wrong: Sophie shouldn't look at her with such kindness. She had her warm, sensible world, with her wine and her soft couch and her pretty paintings. She didn't need to look at wet, broken Parker and offer her more warmth. Parker didn't know what to do with it. It was like she'd stolen a diamond but it didn't help, the diamond only made her more powerless. 

“Come on,” Sophie said, and she put her hand on Parker's arm, guiding Parker to the bathroom. Parker stood there, shivering a little, although it wasn't cold. Sophie touched Parker's cheek, and then turned on the shower. Parker took off her clothes and left them in a wet tangle on the floor. 

The heat of the shower made her dizzy. Her naked body didn't feel like hers. Vulnerable, small, defenceless. She got out, wrapped in a towel and found she was crying, tears trickling out of her and down her chin. She touched her cheeks in surprise. 

Sophie came back, and gave Parker pyjamas, helping Parker step into the pants, as though Parker couldn't do it herself. And Parker appreciated that, because she wasn't sure she _could_ do it herself. 

Then Sophie led her, not to the guest room, but to Sophie's own room. “Lie here with me, darling.” 

It wasn't really an instruction, but Parker still did what she was told. Sophie lay on the bed, lifting the covers, and Parker got under them, shivering a little. 

Sophie held her. Parker cried. And on, for longer than seemed possible: Parker cried. Sophie held her. Then, impossibly, Parker slept. 

In the morning, the sun filled the room. Parker woke to clean sheets, in the warm hollow of Sophie's arms. It was late: she could tell by the light, and the dry taste in her mouth. She lay unmoving, marvelling in the feeling of Sophie's breath against her neck, and that she had slept and woken, whole and held by someone who cared for her. 

“I trust you,” Parker said, when Sophie woke up. 

Sophie looked at her, blinking through sleep. “I'm glad.” 

“We'd protect each other, wouldn't we? If someone tried to hurt us.” 

“Yes,” Sophie said, softly. She touched Parker's cheek. “We would.” 

Parker nodded. She leant into Sophie. She felt hollow, emptied out. Sophie kissed her forehead. For a long time, neither of them spoke. They lay in the sunlight, in each other's warmth.


End file.
